Jean-Paul Sartre famously wrote: “Hell is other people.” Fully acknowledging the difference in interpretation from the famous French philosopher’s original intent, I would contend that “Hell is other people” could also be used in a pinch as a three-word synopsis for the HBO intergenerational comedy-drama series “Hacks,” whose fifth and final season aired last spring and which (once again) is up for an abundant number of Emmy Awards.

Amongst the veritable horn of plenty of nominations it received, “Hacks” is once again nominated for Best Comedy Series, while Jean Smart is nominated for Best Actress. Should Smart claim the award this year, she would be the first actress to win the Best Actress Emmy for every season that her show aired. 

A fifth Emmy win would be a worthy nod for an actress whose public acclaim over the past decade has been a long time coming. Smart first came into public consciousness some 40 years ago as one of the titular heroines of the hilarious and oftentimes stridently feminist TV series, “Designing Women” (CBS, 1986-1993). That career-launching turn as the lovably simple Charlene Frazier would be followed by critically acclaimed and award-winning turns in TV shows such as “Frasier,” “Fargo” and “Mare of Easttown.” But it has been her tour-de-force five season turn as Deborah Vance, the career-driven, ego maniacal stand-up comedian, equal parts Joan Rivers and Phyllis Diller, where Smart’s star has really ascended. Not too shabby for an actress well into her 70s. 

What makes Smart’s performance as Vance (no relation) so powerful is the sheer fearlessness of her portrayal. Deborah Vance is not a likable character by any stretch, and yet never once does Smart make any appeal for sympathy from her audience. What Smart does so well in her depiction of Vance is tune into that aspect of comedians that is hidden and/or ignored, that is, the shadow side of making people laugh: not loving well. In Smart’s depiction of Deborah Vance, she discloses the fact that for most performers, especially comedians, there is a strong desire to love and be loved, but there is real incapacity to do it well.

I was recently in a forum with a group of middle-aged fellow Jesuit priests, discussing the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience that we had taken some two decades ago. We discussed how our understanding of the vows has changed over the past 20 years. One of my confreres, whom I shall call Sam (because that’s his name) spoke of how his understanding of the vow had become so much more than just a restriction of physical behavior; it had become about “loving well.” 

This insight might not strike you as being profound. In fact, it might not strike you at all. However, those two words: “loving well,” gave language to a feeling and desire which for me moved past just defining a vow to encapsulating a whole mode of being. Because if I can be frank: Historically, I have not loved well.

Like Deborah Vance, I am a comedian. I can say that in all honesty, in spite of the other occupations that occupy a significant portion of my life: priest, professor, writer, to name a few. I can say I am a comedian because sometimes, oh, say, once or twice a year, people pay to watch me crack wise. And my experience as a comedian, and around and with other comedians for some 30 years, is that they (we) frequently don’t love well. That is, comedians frequently love poorly. 

It is here that “Hacks” gets to the marrow of the comedian’s identity. Deborah Vance can have a crowd of thousands, perhaps millions of people adoring her on stage. Everywhere she goes, strangers worship her. Yet Deborah has not spoken to her only sibling in over 40 years. Deborah has a tenuous relationship with her only child that is tacitly contingent on her own financial support. Every other person in any sort of relationship with Deborah is on her payroll, including writer Ava Daniels, as played by Hannah Einbinder, Deborah’s primary partner/friend/foil/protégé/arch-nemesis, depending on the episode. Ava also loves poorly, though she is more capable of intuiting her incapacity for personal intimacy beyond the parameters of an audience’s response or the sexual act, and actively tries (and fails) to work against it. 

“Hacks” is fundamentally about two people who love poorly and are incapable of any sort of long-term growth. What this means is that the five seasons of the show become collectively a sort of intergenerational narrative of eternal return. The show is equal parts drama (frequently veering into melodrama and the undermotivated plot shifts that the form allows for) and sitcom (which invites the lack of character growth which that form allows for), which gives the show its Sisyphean quality. “Hacks” has moments from both lead characters of personal revelation and self-awareness, but those epiphanies are always short-lived, and sooner or later, Deborah and Ava are back at the bottom of that figurative narrative hill ready to start pushing the rock up all over again.

The show is frequently laugh-out-loud funny, but as is often the case in many TV shows and films about standup comedians, the actual standup is the least funny material in it. It could be argued that the supporting cast, particularly Megan Stalter and showrunner, Paul W. Downs, as Kayla and Jimmy, Deborah and Ava’s management team, steal the show with their lighthearted, slapstick antics, which do much to soften the heavier, darker tone established by the lead characters. 

Kayla and Jimmy provide a striking counter-example, in their loving well, to Deborah and Ava. They love not just one another, but their clients, and there were many times when I wanted more of their gentle, loving dynamic in place of the repetitive pathos of the two leads. Ultimately, if anything lets “Hacks” down, it is the writing, which can go from sublime to (dare I say) “hack-y” at a moment’s notice. 

“Hacks,” ultimately, begins and ends with Jean Smart. Her Deborah Vance is one of the truly unforgettable characters in the annals of television, up there with Tony Soprano, Archie Bunker and Lucy Ricardo. Smart’s performance is the primary reason for that. Her ability to convey, sometimes in a single moment, the desire to and for love—and her incapacity for either—is no mean feat. As an audience member, you are frequently enraged with Deborah and her behavior, yet she can win you back to her side just like that. Smart, without ever pandering or manipulating, manages to not only make Deborah Vance likable, but lovable, in spite of herself. 

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Jake Martin, S.J. is an assistant professor of film studies at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles. He received his PhD in Film Studies from Trinity College, Dublin in 2023. His book What’s So Funny About Faith: A Memoir from the Intersection of the Hilarious and Holy was published by Loyola Press in 2012. He has been a contributing writer on film and television for America since 2009 and has written for numerous other publications including Huffington Post, Busted Halo and American Catholic Studies. Jake is also an actor and improvisational comedian whose solo show ”Learning to Pray in Front of the Television“ was an official selection for the 2012 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Jake has performed at numerous venues in Chicago and New York